


Hey, Jealousy

by MsImpala67



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, F/M, Jealous Dean, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sam Has Issues, Slow Burn, Wincest - Freeform, smoking pot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-22 15:36:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11383140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsImpala67/pseuds/MsImpala67
Summary: Sam has spent his whole life trying not to be in love with his brother. When he's sixteen, he meets Sasha, and thinks he might stand a chance at moving on. But is a normal life even possible?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story comes from a request I received on Tumblr, and I expect it to be updated very quickly. I hope you enjoy! XOXO

Her name is Sasha, and she sits in front of Sam in his new English class. It takes him a couple of days to gather the nerve to talk to her, because she is infinitely cooler than he is. It’s in her eyeliner and her chipped nail polish when every other girl is wearing butterfly hair clips and glittery lipgloss. It’s in her Pearl Jam t-shirt when every other girl is listening to Backstreet Boys. And it’s in the way none of it is a statement. She’s not trying to push boundaries or prove that she’s a nonconformist. It’s just who she is. 

And it’s in her green eyes. But Sam never admits that. He files that away in the part of his chest that’s always too tight, where he keeps all the reasons he hates himself. 

“Hey.” 

Sasha lets her bookbag drop to the ground as she plops down into her desk, sideways so she can turn and talk to him. “Hey.”   
Her face is open and friendly enough to give Sam some courage. “I’m Sam.”

“I know,” she grins. “I’m Sasha.”

“I know,” he tells her, smiling the same shy smile as her.

“You’re new.” She doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t act like that fact has any kind of assumptions attached to it. It’s just something to say. And it’s an opening. 

But Sam isn’t quite sure how to use it. He can’t just tell her the truth about anything. “Yeah. My dad’s here for his business.” It’s the standard lie, but it feels wrong saying it to her.

“Yeah? Do you move around a lot?”

“Yeah.”

Her eyes widen just a little, and Sam looks away from the green of them, concentrates instead on the edges of her bangs that look like they were cut with a razor. “That must be awesome,” she breathes.

“It isn’t,” he snorts, smiling nervously when her face falls, hoping he hasn’t offended her. “I just mean that it’s not exciting. It’s mostly just the same small town over and over again, just with different people.”

She giggles, but it’s not a typical flirty giggle, all silly and high-pitched. It’s throaty, understated, and really sexy. “That does sound horrible, then.”

Mr. Ellis walks in with the bell and immediately starts talking, and Sasha turns to pull out her notebook. Sam sinks back into his seat and spends the rest of the hour talking himself into asking her out. 

But she beats him to it. 

The second the bell rings, she turns back around and looks him straight in the eye. “You wanna hang out after school today?”

“Sure,” Sam shrugs, trying to look cool and calm and failing. 

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

Sam’s been on dates before. He’s kissed several girls and even made out with a couple, but at sixteen years old, he feels like he’s behind the curve. 

He’s tired of being shuffled around just when he starts to make friends. He hates that he hasn’t been in one place long enough to actually go on more than two dates with someone. And he refuses to mess this up again, to freak out if he actually gets what he wants, like that time in South Carolina when he ran home almost in panicked tears because some pretty girl, who’d spent almost the whole summer staring at him at the city pool, had told him she thought she was in love with him. 

No. This time, he would do things normally. He deserved that.

Sasha’s waiting on the steps out front when the final bell rings. She pops up excitedly, then glances around like she isn’t sure what to say. “Uh, my parents are home. So.”

He can hear what she doesn’t say. _So we can’t go there. Let’s go to your place._

Sam opens his mouth, but closes it again. He can’t invite her over to the shit hole of a rental house John dumped them at. It’s tiny and dirty, and there would be a lot of explanations he couldn’t give. “Well,” he hesitates, “um, my brother is home.”

He definitely can’t let her meet Dean.

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah. He’s older. Kind of an ass.”

She nods understandingly. “My house it is, then. We’ll just have to say hi, and then we can watch a movie in the basement or something.”

“Cool,” Sam nods, jumping at the idea. “That’s fine with me.”

Sasha’s parents are nice. The kind of nice that makes Sam ache a little when they shake his hand and hand him a soda. They’re so...normal.

“We’re gonna watch a movie downstairs, okay?” Sasha tells them, already heading toward the staircase.

Her mom nods after them. “Dinner in a couple of hours. You’re welcome to stay, Sam.”

Sasha grabs his arm and pulls him along before he can properly answer. 

“Sorry about that,” she mumbles, leading him to a small den with a comfortable, overstuffed couch and a television, surrounded by paneled walls and carpet that probably needs to be replaced. It feels like heaven. 

“It’s okay. I liked them.”

She grins at him, clearly thinking he’s just being nice, and sits down next to him. “What kind of movie did you wanna watch?”

“Whatever’s on. I don’t care.”

He watches her as she flips through the television channels, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she’s nervous, concentrating just a little too hard on the screen. He sips his soda, shifts his legs a little, sips again. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything good on. I could look through our tapes, I guess, but it’s mostly just Disney stuff for my little sister. We could watch MTV?” 

“Sounds good.”

Finally, there’s nothing left to do but hang out. And Sam isn’t entirely sure how to do that. He sets the soda can next to hers on the coffee table, glances at the show for a second, then over at her. 

She’s looking at him. “So, you live with your dad and your brother?” It’s an innocent enough question, asked with that _I want to get to know you_ tone of voice. 

“Yeah. But my dad travels a lot for work, so it’s mostly just me and Dean.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty.”

Sasha waits for Sam to go on, to tell her about his family. He changes the subject. “So...have you decided what book you’re going to read for Mr. Ellis’ project?”

There’s a genuine flash of excitement in her eyes when he brings it up.

She’s so pretty. 

“I’ve already started As I Lay Dying. By Faulkner? Have you read it?”

“No,” Sam grins. “Is it good?”

“It’s so good! It’s this family, and the matriarch dies, and they all have to take her body to her home to be buried. It switches point of view so we get to see the whole family and all of their struggles, and I’m not very far in yet, but I can already tell it’s gonna be deep.”

“I’ve never read any Faulkner,” Sam tells her. “Maybe I should.”

“Have you picked your project yet?”

“Not yet,” Sam tells her, leaving out the part that he probably won’t have to, because they’ll pick up and leave before he has to turn it in. But maybe he’ll read As I Lay Dying just for fun. 

That gets the ball rolling, and she starts asking him about his other classes, which leads to talking about music somehow. 

And then, when there’s a lull in the conversation and Sam’s got his eyes back on the television, she leans a little closer. She’s not touching him, but she might as well be, and her hand is right there on her thigh, practically asking his to hold it. 

He takes a couple deep breaths, ashamed of how nervous he is to do something so simple, and then just does it. He quickly reaches over and rests his hand on top of hers, spreading his fingers when she turns hers over. Their fingers slide and lock together, and that’s that. They are watching television, holding hands, and it’s that simple. 

Finally. 

Sam stays for dinner, eats spaghetti and answers her parents’ questions about whether he likes the new school (it’s been good so far) and if he’s started thinking about college yet (he definitely plans to go, but he doesn’t know where yet). 

Sasha walks him to the door after dinner. “Sorry my parents are so lame,” she grins. “We’ll do something else next time.”

Sam shakes his head. “No, I really didn’t mind. I like your parents.” She still doesn’t seem to believe him, but that thought gets pushed aside when the words _next time_ register in his brain. “Next time?”

“Yeah,” she grins. “Next time.”

Reaching for his shirt to pull him down a little, she stretches up on her toes and plants one sweet kiss on his cheek before closing the door behind him. 

Sam floats all the way home, lost in the feeling of her warm lips on his skin for that split-second. He doesn’t even cringe at the sight of the house they’re stuck in when he gets there. He barely sees the peeling paint and cracked sidewalk, doesn’t notice that it takes him a couple tries to get the lock to turn before he can enter. 

“Where you been?”

Just like that, Sam retreats back into himself, hides away and shuts down. Too dangerous to stay open with that voice near him. “Nowhere, Dean,” he mutters, tossing his bookbag on the counter. 

“It’s almost eight. Took you that long to walk home from school?” Dean’s sprawled on the couch, beer in hand, just looking at Sam curiously, but it’s all enough to piss Sam off.

“I was at a friend’s house. She invited me to hang out after school.”

Dean waggles his eyebrows and sits up straight. “She?”

“Yes, she. Sasha.” Sam straightens his shoulders and breathes hard through his nose, waiting for Dean to say something sarcastic, something that he can scream about, get furious at. 

“Cute name. You two dating?”

“Stay out of my life, Dean,” Sam snarls, heading toward the one bedroom and praying Dean doesn’t follow him. He flops down on his bed, feet hanging over the edge and arm covering his eyes. 

_Stay out of my life. Stay out of my head. Why can’t I ever get a minute without you?_

Sam tries to get back to Sasha in his mind, to feel her hand in his again, small and soft. 

But all he can remember about her now is that she has green eyes.   
 


	2. Chapter 2

Sam has changed his t-shirt four times, and now he’s out of options. He can’t wear the Pearl Jam one. He’s had it forever, maybe it was even Dean’s first, but Sasha might think he’s only wearing it because she has one. He can’t wear the Led Zeppelin one. It was _definitely_ Dean’s first, and it has a huge hole in the armpit, and is too faded to even be charming. 

“Look at you, tryin’ to get all pretty for your date.” 

Sam’s eyes jump up and land on Dean, lounging in the doorway, smirk on his lips. 

“Shut up,” Sam growls.

“Don’t worry. She won’t be looking at your shirt. She’ll be looking at all that pretty hair,” Dean continues, taking a few steps closer to reach out for the top of Sam’s head. 

Sam smacks his hand away a little more forcefully than he means to. “Don’t touch me.”

“Sorry,” Dean says, stepping back with his hands raised defensively. “Didn’t know you were so high maintenance.”

Sam stares at the two shirts he’s still considering and ignores the feel of Dean’s eyes on him. 

“You wanna borrow one of mine?” Dean’s not teasing now, calling a truce, and Sam closes his eyes against the sincerity and helpfulness in Dean’s voice. “You can wear the blue button down if you want. It’s clean.”

“No,” Sam snaps, then forces himself to calm down. Dean’s not trying to be an asshole. “Thanks, though,” he adds. 

Dean doesn’t leave the room, and Sam pulls off the plain white shirt he’s wearing, trades it for the black one with the Coca-Cola emblem on it as quickly as he can, back turned. 

He glances in the mirror and still thinks he looks a little shabby, but Sasha already knows that. This one will do. 

“You really like Sasha,” Dean comments. 

Sam pushes past him and into the tiny bathroom. Dean only has to turn in the doorway to continue the conversation. 

“I think she’s cool,” Sam admits, pulling a brush through his hair. 

“You, uh. Want any advice?”

Sam turns and stares at Dean, all masculine heat and cock-sure. “Advice from you?” he snorts. “When was the last time you actually talked to a girl before banging her?”

“Hey,” Dean pouts. “I’m an excellent talker.”

“Talking about how you’re going to bang her doesn’t count.”

Dean laughs. “Fair enough.”

Sam finishes with his hair and grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste. Dean doesn’t move, just stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, smile slowly fading as he stares at the ground. It only takes Sam until he spits to feel like shit. 

He wishes he didn’t. He wishes he could dish out the insults and leave them there, wishes he could believe them. Believe that Dean is just as arrogant and asshole-ish as he pretends to be.

“Okay, Dean, I’m heading out, but I’ll be home early. You wanna get up in the morning and drive out to the lake?” It's a peace offering Dean doesn't even know Sam needs to offer.

Dean’s face lights up like he’s a kid again. “Really?”

“Sure.”

“Dude, fried fish for dinner tomorrow. Yes.”

Sam smiles as he tries to leave, but Dean doesn’t move out of the doorway. For a moment, they’re too close, and Sam can smell him, all sweat and earth and metal. 

“Be careful, yeah?”

“Of course, Dean. We’re just going to the movies.”

“I’ll wait up. I wanna hear all about what a good talker she is.”

********  
Sasha’s waiting outside the movie theater. Sam’s happy to see that she’s wearing the same clothes she wears to school, same chipped nail polish, nothing special for this night or for him. 

“Hey,” she grins, shifting her weight a little nervously. 

“Hey,” he grins back, suddenly a little more sure of himself now that he’s here. The hard part’s over. He managed to get the words Wanna go out with me? out of his mouth, she said yes, and now he can relax and just enjoy it. Besides, the flutter in his stomach is actually kind of fun.

He spends the last of his money on two tickets to see Disturbing Behavior, two Cokes, and a popcorn to share.

“Thanks,” she grins. “But it’s only good if it’s drowned in butter and salt.”

He hands her the snack and nods toward the butter dispenser. “Go for it.”

They’re holding hands again about halfway through the movie, and Sasha keeps leaning closer every time she wants to whisper something to him. Her hair smells like peaches. 

Sam wants to kiss her. 

He manages to wait until they are back outside. 

“I gotta get home,” Sasha tells him, but she sounds sad about it, stands there waiting for Sam to give her a reason to be late. 

Sam takes a deep breath and stays quiet, because he can’t think of anything to say that isn’t stupid. When he leans down, she pushes up on her toes, just like she did when she kissed him on the cheek. He likes the way she does that, how she wants to meet him halfway. 

The kiss is a little awkward, but nice. Sam wishes he knew how this was supposed to happen, what he was supposed to do with his hands, how he was supposed to know if it felt good for her. He guesses he must be doing something right, though, because when he tentatively puts his hands on her back, not too low and not too high, she leans into him and wraps one arm around his neck, lips still moving slowly against his. 

Sam can see the brightness of the theater lights through his closed eyelids, he can smell summer fading in the air, the tiniest bit of autumn creeping in. Her body fits right against his, and he decides he could just stay right there for as long as she'd let him. 

Sasha pulls away too soon, leaving his wet lips to cool in the air. 

“Call me tomorrow?” 

Sam nods. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

“‘Night, Sasha.”

Sam is still grinning when he gets home. Dean’s not in the living room, but the back door is open, faint smell of pot floating into the house from the porch, so Sam escapes straight back to the bedroom. 

It’s late before Dean comes back to the bedroom, and if he’s surprised to find Sam already there without having said hello, he doesn’t say anything. He undresses in the dark and flops onto his own bed, pushed up against the opposite wall from Sam’s. 

“Dad called tonight,” he finally murmurs. 

Sam’s chest tightens, everything clutching inside of him as he waits for this to be ripped from him, just as it starts. “And?” 

“And he said it’s gonna be another month or so. He got the rugaru, but he’s tracking something else with Bobby now.”

Sam relaxes, but he holds in his sigh of relief. “Okay.”

“You have fun tonight?” Dean’s voice is lazy, as slow to focus as his eyes would be if Sam could see them.

“Yeah.” Sam doesn’t want to talk about this. Dean can’t worm his way into this. 

“That’s good, Sammy,” he sighs, high and sleepy. 

“I spent all my money.”

He thinks for a minute that Dean’s asleep, but he finally answers. “S’okay. I’ll get us more. We still goin’ fishin’ in the mornin’?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Missed you tonight, Sammy. Gets boring around here when you’re gone.”

_Don’t. Don’t do that. Just go to sleep._

Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean starts to snore, soft and easy. 

It’s right there, on the edge of Sam’s mind. The thing he never thinks about. The thing that makes him disgusting, the thing he will spend his whole life killing over and over again until it finally dies. 

He ignores it. 

He closes his eyes and goes back to the movies, with Sasha whispering in his ear, hair tickling his skin as she leans closer than she needs to. He stays there until he falls asleep. 

********

“Rise and shine, Sammy!” The shout comes from the kitchen, as does the smell of coffee. “Get your ass up!”

It’s still dark out, and Sam wants to just burrow down into the bed, but he promised. “I’m up,” he shouts, dragging his legs over the side of the bed. 

It doesn’t take very long for them to pile the gear into the backseat of the Impala and head out to the lake just outside of town. 

“I still can’t believe Dad gave this to you,” Sam says, running a hand over the dash.

“I know,” Dean grins, giving the steering wheel a pat. “I guess the Jeep works better for him, but still. Who gives up a car like this?”

Sam watches fondly as Dean drives, getting more excited the closer they get. The pink is just starting to show in the sky when they get there, unloading and settling on the dock without talking. They've done this a million times, and Sam loves it. Or maybe he loves how much Dean loves it. There's just something comforting about it. Familiar. Something that's just theirs.

“So, you had fun last night?” Dean’s voice is low and quiet like the cool air around them.

Sam guesses he doesn’t remember asking that same question the night before. “Yeah.”

“What base did you get to?”

“Don’t be gross.”

“Fine. Tell me about her, then.”

“She’s...smart. I like talking to her.”

Dean nods and casts his line, watching the ripples in the water before sitting down, legs hanging over the side of the dock and dangling over the water. “Good.”

“Good? That’s it? You don’t wanna know how hot she is or anything?”

“Don’t really care. Smart’s better. You deserve smart.”

There’s something in Dean’s voice that Sam recognizes from childhood, from every day of his life, something protective and a little sad. 

“First base,” Sam tells him. 

Dean grins. “That’s my boy. Always a gentleman.”

They fish as the sun rises, the glow washing over their skin as they bait hooks and cast lines, drifting in and out of conversation as the mood strikes. They don’t catch anything big enough to keep. 

“Looks like our fried fish won’t be fresh,” Dean sighs as they pack up, the sun fully up and a little too bright now. Sam thinks their fried fish will probably turn out to be generic Spaghettios, but he doesn’t mind. 

Dean waits until they are almost home to bring the date up again. “You gonna see her again this weekend?”

Sam imagines for a second that he hears a note of annoyance in Dean’s voice. Like maybe Dean wants him here, to fish and smoke pot and watch bad movies. “I’m supposed to call her today,” he says. “Her parents are pretty straight-laced. I don’t think they’ll want her going out again so soon.”

Dean nods, but says nothing.

Sam closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the cool glass of the window, wishing he could see Sasha right now, and wishing he could stay right here in this car for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

Sasha’s bedroom is exactly what Sam thought it would be. It’s clean without being _too_ clean, books everywhere, a pretty extensive CD collection lining a couple of shelves above a tiny stereo. There’s a collage of pictures above her dresser, stuck to the wall with colorful thumbtacks. Sam sees a few people he recognizes from school, grins at the silly faces they’re making, ignores the jealous lurch in his stomach when he thinks about his own bare walls in the rental house. 

Of course, he’s got a box under his bed with plenty of pictures, pictures of just him and Dean, and he’s happier in those than Sasha is in any of these. But that’s one of Sam’s secrets. 

“Too bad we have to leave the door open,” she grins. “My parents are buzzkills.”

Sam grins back, sits down on her unmade bed and leans back on his hands. “And what would we do if the door was closed?”

They’ve been officially dating for a couple of weeks now, and it’s easier to flirt with her now. Fun and natural. 

“I don’t know. Finish what we started the other night?”

They’d made out on the couch in her basement two nights ago, longer than Sam had ever made out with a girl before, his hands sneaking up the back of her shirt to feel her skin and the cotton strap of her bra. She had pushed her whole chest into his, sighing into his mouth each time he took a chance and pushed a little farther. But the door had opened, her mom’s voice calling down the stairs to see if they wanted ice cream, and that had been the end of that. He’d said goodnight an hour later, the taste of chocolate and Sasha still on his tongue. 

“It’s a shame we can’t close the door then,” Sam says. It’s a half-truth. He’s still not convinced that he knows what he’s doing here.

“You sure we can’t go to your house?” she asks. “How bad can your brother be, really?”

Sam snorts. “Dean’s not bad. He’s just... I don’t wanna hang out with him.”

“Why?” Sasha crosses her arms and stares at him, and Sam knows he’s not going to get out of answering this time. 

He looks down at his shoes, ratty old sneakers that will have a hole in the toe any day now. “He’s...well, he’s Dean. He does this whole charming smile thing, and he’ll offer you a drink or a joint, and he’ll just...you’ll like him.”

Sasha looks exasperated. “Yeah. That sounds just awful.”

“No, I mean you’ll like him.” It’s true. Everyone falls for Dean. It’s bad enough that Sam is as fucked up as he is, that being brothers doesn’t stop him from seeing how fucking perfect Dean is. He likes Sasha. He can’t risk those two worlds colliding.

“You think I’ll like him more than I like you?”

_That, and I’m afraid he’ll like you back. I don’t want him to like you._

Sam shrugs. “He’s the hot one.” He hates the petulance in his voice.

Sasha laughs, climbs right into his lap and laces her fingers at the back of his neck even though her bedroom door is still wide open. “I seriously doubt that.”

“It’s true.”

“Then he must be some mythical god or something.”

Sam looks at her blankly, not understanding. 

She only rolls her eyes like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re hot, Sam. Like. _Really_ hot.”

Sam can feel the blush on his cheeks, and he isn’t quite sure how to respond to her vehemence. He just sits there when she leans forward, tongue sliding across his lower lip, fingers slipping up into his hair.

“Doesn’t matter, anyway,” she murmurs. “I don’t care how hot he is. I want you.”

And then one hand moves, lands on his chest and slides down, lower and lower until her fingers are teasing at the hem of his jeans. 

“Uh…” He grabs her sides and gently pushes her off, standing up and hoping that his growing erection isn’t obvious. “We can’t do this right now. Your parents are home.”

Sasha narrows her eyes like she’s trying to decide whether or not that’s the real reason he’s stopping her. “Okay,” she finally says. “We’ve both got a lot of homework anyway.”

Sam leans down to kiss her, grateful that she lets him, that there’s no anger in her touch. “I’ll call you later.”

The walk home feels long.

Sam doesn’t know why he’s freaking out. He’s sixteen, he’s got a girlfriend, and he should want to touch her. He should be feeling her up in dark movie theaters, should be kicking Dean out of their house so he can bring her there to do all the things that teenagers do.

Instead, he’s panicking, wondering if all the things that are wrong with him have made this impossible. Would he even know how to be with her?

“What’s wrong, Sam?” Dean asks. Sam hasn’t even gotten the door shut yet, but Dean knows. He always knows when there’s something wrong, is always right there, worried and ready for a fight.

He loves that about Dean.

And it pisses him off.

“Nothing.” He doesn’t look at Dean as he walks to their bedroom. 

Dean follows him. “Did you and Sasha have a fight or somethin’?”

“No,” Sam tells him. “I’m fine.”

Dean has the windows open, and the night air is almost too cool for it. It feels good on Sam’s face. 

“Here.”

Sam hears the click of a lighter, smells the sweetness of a joint. When he turns around, Dean’s holding it out to him. 

For maybe the third or fourth time in his life, Sam actually accepts the offer and takes a hit, breathing deep and holding it, resisting the urge to cough as it burns into his system. The smoke floats in front of him when he lets it out, swirls with the light breeze in hazy circles. He watches them as he brings the joint to his lips again. 

“Don’t hog it, Sammy,” Dean grins. 

Sam blows his smoke directly at Dean’s face as he hands it over. 

Half an hour later, they are sprawled on the floor between their too-small beds, pillows under their heads, a blanket of smoke above them. 

“You fuck her yet?” Dean asks.

Sam drags his fingers over the old carpet, feeling the rough scrape of it on his fingertips. “No.”

“Why not?”

Sam’s tongue is too heavy when he answers. “Dunno. Just haven’t.”

Dean’s arm knocks into his as he hands what’s left of the second joint back to Sam. Their fingers nestle and rub against each other, and Sam feels the contact down to the tips of his toes. 

“You want to?”

Sam shrugs. At least, he thinks he does. Maybe he just thinks about it. 

“You nervous?”

Sam knows he shrugs this time, because his shoulder hits Dean’s. It stays there, and neither of them move it away. 

“You don’t need to be nervous. Going all the way ain’t that different from anything else. How far you gone before?”

Sam turns his head, finds Dean’s face closer than he thought it would be. Dean has a lot of freckles. “Kissing,” he says.

Dean blinks his long eyelashes for a moment. “That’s it?”

Sam closes his eyes, embarrassed now. 

“Oh, Sammy. You gotta just go for it. You’re missin’ out.”

“On what?” They shouldn’t be having this conversation. 

“Well, you know how good it feels when you jack off, don’t you?”

It takes a lot of effort for Sam to move, to roll to his side so he can watch Dean talk. His muscles are too relaxed, too heavy to move right now. 

“Imagine that, but like a thousand times better.”

“Imagine it?” 

_Shut up, Sam. What the hell are you doing?_

Those pink, full lips curl into a smirk as Dean stares at the ceiling. Sam hopes Dean doesn’t know he’s watching. “Yeah, think about what a mouth would feel like, all hot and wet, soft lips curling around your dick.”

Sam’s fingers dig into the carpet just a little. An delicious ache starts in his gut. 

“Or think about a pussy. So slick, clenching around you...feels so good, Sammy. I promise.”

Sam believes him. His eyes roll down Dean’s torso, keep moving lower until they find the bulge in Dean’s jeans. Sam’s hand twitches, wants to reach out and feel it, see how hard it is. They used to change in front of each other, used to share bathrooms like it was nothing. Dean still didn't care about that stuff. But Sam had to stop that a few years ago, couldn’t quite handle the lack of privacy. How big has Dean’s cock gotten since the last time Sam allowed himself to look at it?

Jesus, he needs to stop this. 

“I need to sleep,” he says. 

Dean sits up long enough to flick the joint into the ashtray on the windowsill, then drops back down, the whole side of his body pressed against Sam’s now. “Sure, Sammy. Let’s go to sleep.”

Sam wakes up the next morning, still on the floor, Dean snoring next to him. The ghost of last night hangs over him, the words still ringing in his ears but feeling very much like a dream now. 

He gets up and heads into the bathroom, locking the door behind him before climbing into the shower. He jerks off quickly, quietly, thinking of how it would feel to have Sasha beneath him, how it would feel to fuck into her over and over again while she moaned. He pretends it isn't Dean's voice narrating his fantasy.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean doesn’t mention their conversation the next day. Or the next. Or the next.

Sam waits, waits for Dean to tease him, waits for Dean to butt into his business again, waits for _something_. But it never comes. Dean just goes about his business, buried in the engine of the Impala, leaving for hours at a time when Sam gets home from school and not coming home until it’s late enough that he can go straight to bed. 

The gnawing in Sam’s stomach grows into a painful ache. This is it. He pushed Dean too far, let his feelings show on his face or something while he was high (on both pot and his brother’s voice). Dean knows Sam's secret now, and when he woke up sober, he decided he wants nothing to do with Sam. It’s in the way he only grunts hello, in the way he ignores the dinner Sam leaves on the stove for him and just has a shot of whiskey instead. 

Dean knows how disgusting Sam is.

Sam wants to scream, wants to wrap himself around Dean and beg him, beg him to understand, beg him to _just not leave, okay? Just stay here, even if you can’t look at me._

But he can feel it, the change in the air. 

It’s only a matter of time. 

Sasha watches him carefully at school, like she knows something is wrong. She doesn’t ask, but she reaches for his hand more often. Sits a little closer at their lunch table. Sam looks at her, pretty face sweet and hopeful, and hates himself even more for letting her comfort him. He doesn’t deserve it. 

“You wanna hang out tonight?” Sasha asks after school. “Maybe we could take a drive somewhere. Mom said I could have her car.”

“I can’t,” Sam says. “I gotta get that paper done for Ellis.” It’s true that he hasn’t finished the paper, but he mostly just can’t be around her. Not right now. It will be another night of sitting in his empty house, wishing Dean would come home, feeling like shit when he does. 

“Okay.” She doesn’t try to hide the disappointment in her voice. 

“Maybe this weekend,” he tells her. 

“Sure, Sam.”

********

Dean actually greets him when he gets home. For a split-second, Sam is seven years old again, so relieved to see his big brother at the end of the day that he just wants to run and jump at him, wrap his arms around his neck and hold on for as long as Dean will let him.

“Dad called,” Dean tells him, not meeting his eyes. 

“Oh.”

“He, uh. He found another job. Said to just hang tight here a couple more weeks.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That means a month.”

“Probably.”

"Well, at least I can stay in a school long enough to learn people's names." Sam knows that it must hurt Dean. His shoulders are slumped and he’s chewing on his lip, looking very small in their tiny living room. Dean wants to go and be useful. Wants John to need him there instead of here. “You okay?”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam ignores the obvious. “He send any money?” Dean bites his lip, and hot anger flares inside Sam. “Asshole.”

Dean holds up his hands defensively. “Come on, Sammy, don’t be like-”

“Why not? He just dumps us here with fifty bucks and leaves for, what, three months? What does he think we’re doing? How does he think we’re eating? What about the water and electricity?”

“I’ll take care of it, Sam. Don’t I always take care of it?”

_Don’t I always take care of you?_

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t fucking have to. What are you gonna do, knock over a gas station? Get the shit kicked out of you after you hustle some poker game? You can’t do everything, Dean.”

It’s a dig at John, years of resentment bubbling up and spilling over, but that’s not what Dean hears. Sam watches the fight dull in his eyes, watches hurt take over as Dean folds in on himself. Failing.

“Dean, don’t. Don’t you dare feel guilty because Dad doesn’t have a clue.”

“Dad is out saving the damn world, Sam. He shouldn’t have to wipe our asses for us.”

They’ve had this fight too many times. Each word is burned in Sam’s brain. “Actually, Dean, he should. That’s what parents do. But you’re too scared of him to tell him so.”

“Scared of him? I ain’t scared. I just have some respect for him.”

Sam snorts. “Is that what you call it? Ass kissing is more like it.” God, it feels good to fight. There’s so much boiling over inside of him, simmering under his skin all the time, and he can’t do anything about it. The relief of letting it out, of pouring it on John, of having an acceptable reason to be pissed, feels so good it almost hurts. Sam lets it erupt out of his chest in deep, ragged breaths. 

“It’s better than _you_ ,” Dean snaps, playing his part in this argument. “You act like an ungrateful brat. We should consider ourselves lucky. Plenty of hunters ain’t even got roofs over their heads.”

“Well, I’m not a hunter. Never asked to be. So you can go on living like trash if you want. I’m fucking done.”

Sam turns and walks out, slams the door behind him like he’s done a thousand times before. Dean stopped following him years ago. He’ll let him wander around until he’s cooled off, until he’s tired and hungry enough to come back. 

This is the first time Sam’s had somewhere else to go. 

He gets to Sasha’s just before dinner. 

“Hey,” she grins, opening the door open wide. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight. You want some dinner?”

“Um, thanks, but. You think we could just take that ride somewhere?”

She looks him up and down, hands shoved in his pockets, face probably still flushed, and nods. “Uh, sure. Gimme two seconds.”

Sam waits on the sidewalk, and she comes out a few minutes later, shoes on her feet and keys in her hand. He follows her silently to her mom’s car. It’s a Toyota, nice and clean and dependable. Sam misses the growl of the Impala. 

They drive all the way out to some back road clearing where kids go to make out, but the sun is still up and they’re alone. Sasha shuts off the engine and turns her green eyes on Sam, a familiar, piercing look staring right through him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sam sighs and looks at her hands, at the silver ring she wears on her thumb. “It’s fine. I just had a fight with Dean.”

“Your brother? About what?”

“Our dad.” Sam doesn’t know why he tells the truth, but there it is, sitting between them like a peace offering for all the shit he’s still lying to her about. 

“What about your dad? You said he was away on business, right?”

“Yeah. He just...I think he gets too wrapped up in his work, and it pisses me off that Dean thinks he can do no wrong.”

Sasha smiles softly. “There. Was that so hard?”

Sam grins and pulls her hand up to kiss her palm. “Kinda. Yeah.”

She laughs. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Well,” she runs her hand down his face, and he can’t help but lean into it, “thank you for letting me in a little.”

And why shouldn’t he? Just for tonight, what would it hurt to just be fucking normal?

Without a word, he leans forward to press one short kiss to her mouth, then gets out of the car long enough to switch to the backseat. She follows him there, sliding into his side and running a hand up his chest. 

“Sam?”

He leans down and answers the question with a kiss, pulls at her waist until she’s straddling his lap, tongues clashing and hips grinding. She’s so soft and warm, barely a weight on his thighs as she moves. The heat of her gets him hard, as does the sight of her when she pulls back and peels off her t-shirt. The white cotton bra underneath is thin, and Sam can see her nipples through the material. He slides his hands up her bare stomach, feeling where he’s never felt before, letting his fingertips bump over small ribs and slipping against the underwire. 

Sasha holds still and lets him explore, wide-eyed like this is a first for her, too. 

When Sam licks his lips, she reaches down and lifts the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it fall to the seat next to them. She averts her eyes when she unhooks her own bra, like she’s embarrassed or afraid of seeing his disapproval. 

“Sasha…” he whispers, pulling her face around to look at him. “You’re beautiful.”

Sam thinks for a second that he should be cool, that he should say something sexy or dangerous or...no. Sam has listened to someone be cool and sexy and dangerous his whole life. And it’s only fucked him up. 

So he sticks with beautiful. 

And it almost works. He kisses her, deep and long kisses full of first love and anticipation, the windows starting to fog up with their breath as they smile through it, as they take the time to stroke hair and lace fingers. He asks if she’s okay before he locks his hands in the small of her back and pulls her closer, lets their bare skin rub together as she sighs and whimpers a little. 

It _almost_ works. 

And then the ache in him flares up again. This time, it’s clawing and empty, begging to be touched in a way that Sasha isn’t touching him. In a way that she _can’t_ touch him. 

When her hand reaches for the button on his jeans, he panics. “Wait.” He can’t do this.

She pulls back, lips swollen and brow furrowed. 

“I...uh. I should probably get home. I just, um…”

Sasha’s face turns red. Scrambling to find her t-shirt, she pulls it up to cover her breasts as she slides off his lap. “What is it? Did I do something-”

“No!” Sam reaches out, but doesn’t touch her. “No, it’s not you. You’re...well, you’re perfect. And I- I just need to go home. I’m sorry.”

Sam pulls on his shirt and gets out of the car, leaving her to dress in private. 

When she climbs out of the car, she still looks upset and confused. Sam wishes he knew how to stop himself from hurting her. 

“Can I drive you home, at least?” she asks. 

Sam nods and gets in the car. The only words between them are the directions he gives her to get to the rental house. He watches her face, but she doesn’t seem to have a reaction to the peeling paint and overgrown yard. 

“Sasha, I’m-”

“Don’t worry about it,” she interrupts, not making eye contact. “I’ll see you at school, okay?”

“Okay,” Sam nods. 

There’s nothing else to say. He gets out of the car, listens to the crunch of her tires pulling away as he walks to the door. 

Dean’s waiting on the couch, four empty beer bottles around his feet. “Was that Sasha that dropped you off?”

“Yeah.”

“You been with her this whole time?”

Sam knows his hair is messed up and his shirt is probably rumpled. Dean is looking at him like he can see how Sam’s lips are still tingling. 

“Does it matter if I have?” Sam mumbles, toeing off his shoes.

“No. I guess it doesn’t.” 

Sam retreats to the bedroom, turns on the radio and curls up on the bed. He hears the door to the back porch open. Eventually, he falls asleep, knowing that Dean will drink or smoke himself into a better mood and that everything will be fine for him in the morning. Sam wishes he could deal with his own feelings that easily. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, just before sunrise, Dean’s bed is still empty.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean stumbles in about an hour after Sam wakes up. Sam’s in the kitchen, freshly showered and trying to figure out if they have any food worth fixing, coffee brewing in the pot. The door echoes through the tiny house, and everything is forgotten except that sound. 

_Dean._

He’s barely in the door before Sam’s already right there, too eager to make this better. But it only takes one good look to make Sam feel sick to his stomach. Dean smells. Whiskey and pussy are rolling off him in waves, scents that Sam is all too familiar with, scents that make him fold his arms over his torso like he can somehow protect himself from it this way. Dean almost stumbles as he kicks his boots off, still a little drunk when he looks up and smirks. 

“Mornin’, Sammy.”

“You’re drunk.”

“You don’t miss a thing.”

Sam feels the burn in his eyes, but there aren’t any tears. He’s good at pushing it all in, at turning the hate on himself, where it really belongs. It’s not Dean’s fault that Sam’s disgusting and fucked up. It’s not Dean’s fault that he needed to get drunk and get laid last night. 

“You want some coffee?” Sam asks, looking at his own bare feet.

“I want to sleep,” Dean groans, pushing his way down the hallway and into the bedroom. 

Sam watches him until all he can see are Dean’s sock-covered feet hanging off the mattress, the only part of him visible from the front room. The panic settles in then. Dean’s home. He’ll wake up and they’ll have to talk about this. 

Suddenly the thought of breakfast, or even coffee, makes him want to throw up. He abandons the kitchen and heads to the back porch and the lawn chair Dean keeps there, a pack of cigarettes in the built-in cup holder. Dean only smokes cigarettes every now and then, when he’s drunk and out of pot, or when he’s particularly stressed out. Sam has only ever smoked pot, and Dean’s cigarettes have never appealed to him. But he needs something to do, so he sits down and lights up, practices blowing smoke rings and lets the nicotine rush through his veins. 

He’s still waiting there when Dean wakes up. 

Dean trudges out to the porch, rubbing at his face and hair as he yawns. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

“Smoking your cigarettes.”

Dean leans against the door and narrows his eyes, like he’s just now realizing that he’s home and talking to Sam. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says quietly, unsure of what Dean’s going to say about any of this. “I shouldn’t have picked that fight with you yesterday. I’m just pissed at Dad.”

“I know.”

Sam knows he’s forgiven. They’ve had that fight a million times, and he doesn’t need to apologize. Dean never stays mad at him. Now if only they could talk about the rest. Sam wants to get inside Dean’s brain, just for a few seconds. Is he thinking about the other night? Does he regret the things he said? Does he see through Sam? Why has he been so distant?

“Look, when Sasha dropped me off last night-”

“Don’t worry about it.”

There’s a nonchalance in his voice that means they aren’t going to talk about this. Dean’s already decided to ignore it. Besides, he still smells like sex, and he can’t very well lecture Sam about sex that way. 

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he finally says. “And then I’m going out. There’s a pool game at the bar I went to last night. I’ll get us some money for the next couple of weeks.” 

Sam nods without turning around to look at his brother, unable to handle the proud set of Dean’s shoulders when he’s doing John’s job. Suddenly, there’s a hand in his hair, ruffling through the strands and playfully pulling just a little. 

And then Dean’s gone. 

The touch isn’t much, but it’s enough for Sam. Dean doesn’t hate him. It doesn’t fix a fucking thing, but he doesn’t hate him. 

Sam spends the rest of the day trying not to think about the girl Dean was with last night. But of course, that’s all he does. He’s heartbroken and half-hard in no time, thinking about how Dean looked and sounded, angrily fucking into her, grunting and sweating until he felt better. 

_What the fuck is wrong with me?_

He should be thinking about Sasha. He owes her an explanation he can’t give, and a normal teenage boy would be thinking of how to make things right with his girlfriend. A normal teenage boy would be jacking off to the thought of her right now. 

Her and her green eyes. 

_Seriously, get a grip._

Sam actually gets his chance to focus solely on her, however, when she shows up at his house. She knocks on the screen door, then lets herself in, calling out from the entryway. “Sam? Hello?”

Sam pops up from the living couch, where he’s spent most of the evening lying around. “Sasha?”

She glances around awkwardly and shifts her weight on her feet. “I should have called,” she says. “But I wasn’t sure you’d answer. Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure.” Sam stands up, suddenly incredibly aware of just how shabby this place really is. 

“I, uh, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“That’s fine. Dean’s out for the night, so we’re alone.”

She seems to relax at that, and comes to join him on the couch. 

“Did I do something last night?” She cuts right to the chase, her bottom lip sticking out just a tiny bit, defiant and giving away her nerves. “I mean, did I mess up somehow?”

“Sasha,” Sam reaches out and grabs one of her hands, “you didn’t do anything. I’m sorry I was an ass last night. I just...I was angry at Dean, and angry at myself for fighting with him, and I...that’s not how I wanted our first time to be.”

There. It feels like an acceptable half-truth, all of the things he said not lies exactly, just phrased intentionally. That wasn’t so bad, was it? And it makes Sam feel better to see her relax, like a weight is lifted off her shoulders. 

“Are you two okay?” she asks, letting her fingers link with his. 

“Sure,” Sam shrugs. “We’ll get over it.”

She nods. “Good.” 

When she leans forward to kiss him, Sam doesn’t stop her. Maybe he should. Maybe this was his chance for a clean break before she gets really hurt. But she feels too good, too little and soft and all his, simple and natural and normal, nothing painful in his chest when he looks at her. So he just kisses her back, leans back into the couch and enjoys this simple pleasure. 

Before he realizes it, he’s got his hands under her shirt, groaning at the feel of her tits and the way she’s grinding on his lap.

“Sam, we can wait if you want to, but…”

“But what?”

“But I like you. And I want to. Do you want me?”

Not enough, but he does. He nods at her. 

“Is this your first time?”

He nods again, feeling his cheeks burn a little. 

“Mine too. So tell me if I do something wrong, okay?”

With that, she slides from his lap to the floor, kneeling between his legs. Her tiny hands slide up his stomach, pushing his t-shirt up out of the way as he watches, frozen to the spot. She fumbles with his jeans, edging the zipper down and clumsily pulling them until they’re bunched at his knees. His cock swells in his boxers, tenting the material out as she licks her lips and takes a deep breath. 

He almost comes when she finally touches him, palming him through his boxers as she plants a kiss to his lower stomach. 

“Does this feel good?” she asks. 

All of her confidence from last night is gone. The wild, half-naked girl in the backseat, who sucked his tongue like it was his dick, is replaced by someone a little nervous and scared. Sam forgets everything but making her feel good, everything but letting her know just how perfect she is. 

“Everything you do feels good,” he tells her. For a second, he considers stopping her. If he was better at this, he’d eat her out. If he was better at this, he’d know the right dirty words to say to turn her on, would know exactly how to make her come and scream his name before he’d even fucked her. 

That’s what Dean would do. 

But he can’t think about Dean right now, and his well-trained brain blocks him out as he goes back to Sasha.

He lifts his hips when she pulls his boxers down, a little self-conscious as she looks at him. The feeling doesn’t last. She leans forward and plants one kiss to the head of his cock, and he’s gone. He’s never felt anything like that in his life. It’s warm and wet and so incredibly different from his own hand. Instinctively, he reaches down and squeezes the base of himself, afraid he’s going to come far too soon, and groans loudly. 

That seems to reassure her, and she smiles shyly before licking up and down his entire length, letting her tongue slide over his fingers before making her way back up. Sam groans again. The sight of her lips, full and forming an ‘o’ shape as she sinks down just a little, testing things out, makes him all but cry out, his whole body tensing up with the sheer pleasure of it. He’s not going to stop her this time. 

Sasha learns quickly, paying attention to his reactions and finding a rhythm that has him sweating, her tongue swirling over him as she bobs her head. Jesus Christ, it’s too much, a sensation that no amount of hearing about it could ever really describe. 

It’s so good that neither of them hear the door when it opens. It takes a deep voice to break Sam out of the spell. 

“Hey, Sammy, I got us…” The voice trails off into silence.

Sasha pulls off quickly, jumping back up to sit on the couch like that could possibly cover up what they were just doing. Sam’s hands fly to pull up his pants, but it’s no use. 

Dean’s standing right there, and he’s seen everything there is to see.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! XOXO


End file.
